IT WAS CHILLY for a summer night in Bor俥. A breeze blew over the gardens. The lady Emilie huddled in her cloak. At her side was the jester, Norbert.
Emilie had tried to read her book of chansons de geste that night, but the pages turned emptily, her thoughts drifting into space like wisps of smoke. The rhymes of poets and the tales of imaginary heroes no longer captivated her. Her heart ached with a confusion she had never known before. It always came back to one thing. One face.
What is happening to me? she wondered.I feel I am going mad, Norbert had noticed it. The jester had knocked on her door earlier that night. I know laughter, my lady, and to know that, I must know melancholy too.
So you are a jester and now a physician too? She pretended to scold him.
It takes no physician to see what ails you, lady. You miss the lad, don't you?
With anyone else, she would have bitten her tongue. I do miss him, jester. I cannot lie.
The jester sat across from her. You're not alone. I miss him too.
This was something new for Emilie. She was used to feeling that men were like flies, nuisances, always buzzing around her, too concerned with their boasting and their deeds to be taken seriously. But this was different.How had it happened? She had only known Hugh for weeks. His life was a world apart from hers, yet she knew everything about him. Most likely, she would never see him again.
I feel I have sent him on this quest, she told Norbert. And now I wish I could bring him back.
You did not send him, lady. And with all respect, he is not yours to bring back.
No, Norbert was right. Hugh was not hers. She had only stumbled upon him.
